world are tosing, hallelujah! this is the author of the "Sibyl Leaves," the great poet-who has published another book.

From the first part of the preface it appeared that "detached poems were offered the more confidently on the ground of their being detached, but it is not so.

It appears to me indeed almost impossible that in the overwhelming mass of poetry still increasing, detached poems, of whatever merit or demerit they may be, can endure for any length of time. It may then be asked, thinking so, why do I now publish such? I answer, my wish is simply to be appreciated by them for a capability of rising to a higher subject, and thus establishing for myself some faint recollection hereafter, when the task to which I am now devolved is completed; and this I think will be considered satisfactory and moderate.

Very moderate, and very satisfactory indeed; but neither so moderate nor so satisfactory as what comes afterwards. We shall now see why it is the great poets do not now spring up to succeed the great who are going by; and this will account for Mr. Reade's bespoken celebrity.

It strikes me that the poets of the present day (of course those who have long since taken their niche in Fame's temple excluded) want an aim in what they write. Dramatic poems and pieces are almost daily offered us, written with more or less force and elegance, and are admired, and then laid down; they pleased for the hour, and attempting no loftier effort-are forgotten. I think the only chance a writer has of being named a century hence is, instead of wasting away his powers on sketches and madrigals, to concenter his scattered energies to one point, [what point?] to form a regular design, and build up a whole, in which he might [may] develop the habitual philosophical bias of his mind, and infuse all his peculiar modes of thought and feeling. [Here is an aim !] It might, or might not be, a "monumentum ære perennius," at all events the attempt would show a noble ambition, and consequently an aspiring mind, which would be honourable even in its failure. [Not a bit more honourable than any other miscalculation.] The various works of the eternal Byron all more or less point to one end: [to what end ?] those of Wordsworth, though by a very different path, do the same; and a glow of enthusiasm, and a generous love of liberty pervade, [are these ends? a pretty tale] and are caught alike from the strains of Moore and Campbell. As to Coleridge, I, as one among the countless admirers of his transcendantly fine genius, can only hope his career is not yet done.

In a subsequent paragraph Mr. Reade explains the reason (for nothing must go unexplained) why he has given the name of Sibyl Leaves his work the reason is, "that he could find no other name." Surely it was not so utterly impossible?-there are other appellations which might have been thought equally appropriate. We can see nothing so prophetic in them as to remind us of the Sibyls or their leaves. But our readers shall have an opportunity of judging. Great poetical talent would not exonerate the author from the chastisement merited by arrogant folly; much less is he to be screened by the slight defence which these poems can afford him.

Mr. Reade's poetry is of that flatulent description which most frequently blows up young men of indifferent digestive powers, with a notion of their own sublimity. It is vague-it is wordy-it is high sounding, and altogether thin and unsubstantial-the reader knows not where to have it. The sense flickers about his brain like a shadow, and is never caught. Through this sublime no-meaning, the poet wings his lofty way, and as he toils on among fog and mizzle and rain, no doubt hugs himself with the idea that all the world is staring at the altitude of his flight. He may not be

entirely wrong; there are many people who think the better of writing because it is incomprehensible-some because it is the part of the ignorant to wonder at what they cannot understand some because they amuse themselves with the task of depositing their own meaning in the words which the author has arranged for the reception of his own. But this is only done in the case of great names-a Kant, or a Goethe, or a Boehmen, never want a meaning-nay, fifty-in the minds of the faithful. We will take as an example Mr. Reade's poem, entitled, The West Wind-we consider it about the best in the book: had this poem been attributed to an Apostle in poetry, it had not wanted many fine interpretations. The words are poetical, the metre is rhythmical; and there is a kind of wildness about it such as young poets have who go about plantations, gravel walks, and canals, with an open shirt collar, and a little volume (" Boscan or Garcilasso") in their handsand who call the said plantations, gravel walks, and cauals-groves, wood paths, and fountains.

Hear me, even now, thou Spirit of the Air!

Thou viewless thing, that as a presence dost give

Life and elastic gladness-Oh, that I were

Like thee, a bodiless essence; and could live

All freshness and all purity; and leave

The passions that do waste this clay behind,
Sorrow, and pain, and hopelessness; and grieve

No more for aught of earth, but like thee, Wind,
Revel before the path of that bright sun,

And pass away at last like melody when done.

III.

Child of the elements! who so blest as thou?
When the rich twilight fades along the skies
Steeping in hues of heaven the earth's wan brow,
Thou wanderest from the gates of Paradise.
The flowers give thee their perfume, from above
The dews sink on thy wings, and thou goest on
Hallowing each spot thou visitest, while Love
Breathes to thee, bowered in his deep haunt alone,
A blessing when thou com'st, a sigh when thou art gone.

IV.

I hear thee now the scattered leaves are sighing
To thy sweet breath they never more shall feel!
From the seared woods a voice is heard replying,
Where the last lingering tints of Autumn steal :
All breathe decay and sadness, they are dead,

And hope with them lies buried-unlike thee,
Who, while man's mightiest works as leaves are fled,
Still wanderest o'er the bright earth wild and free,
Like Love, the awakening soul, that liveth on eternally.
MAY, 1827.

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V.

Requiem of Melody! chaunted as from heaven,
Which through great Nature's temple swells along!
Now, while life rests in holiest commune given,
I sit and listen thy inwoven song;

What dost thou teach me? nothing can be known;
Then let me dream awhile from thought oppressed
Lulled by the murmurs of thy dreamy tone:
Enough that in this bright day I am blest,

That I, like thee at last, shall find my place of rest.

Were we to end here, Mr. Reade might cry out upon us, and declare that we had been ill-natured, unjust, and God knows what! To avoid such a scandal, we must, greatly against our inclination, give further specimens of his quality. That we may not entirely throw away our space, we shall select the poems we are inclined to esteem the best. It is possible they may please some of our readers whose tastes differ from ours-we will at least hope so in charity. We think the poem called Sunset is what young ladies call "beautifully wild." It is no doubt true, that if slipped in at the end of some of Byron's "metaphysical" (!) poems, it would pass muster as well as several of his "dreams and darknesses."

SUNSET.

I adore

The Sun, that looks upon his worshipper,
But knows of him no inore.-Shakespeare.

O thou departing god!

Or idol of that God-before whose brow

The clouds, and heaven, and earth do robe themselves
In hues of beauty caught but from thy presence.

I see thee still-and feel thy warmth of rays,
While thou dost lighten up this inward being
With glory and with joy! I look on thee,
Dust though I am, and darkly comprehend
The life-the visions of beatitude

They feel, who stand before the Almighty's throne,
Of whom thou art the shadow! Glorious orb!
I yield the adoration of dim sense,

Absorbed and lost in light ineffable!

Of clay, which, quickened by thy beams, grew up
Expanding like thy flowers, and whence, oh whence
Doth the soul draw its earliest inspiration,

And springing thoughts, and passion, life, and love,
But from thine urn of fire? Thou risest-and
Earth in her visible creation wakes,

Glowing with light and beauty, and man's heart
Pours forth in gratitude, o'erflowing with
The feeling and the consciousness of being,
The blessing, and the luxury-to be!

Thou sink'st and nature fades: her energies,

And all her mighty action is at rest;
The passion and the life from thee inspired,
The informing soul, is gone-and like a corse
Vaulted beneath night's starry sepulchre,
She sleeps as in her grave.

Sinks and lives on through ruin, and the nations
Rise, change, and vanish; but they turned to thee
As to a visible god, and drew down thence
An impress of divinity--a hope,

A spark of kindred immortality;

And truth and wisdom; and knelt to thee in temples Not reared by human hands, but on the mountains The free and natural steps to thy great shrine,

Where thou wert worshipped o'er the hosts of Heaven!
Altar of Deity unrevealed! who first

From this all beautiful earth, o'ercome with love,
Offered his heart up in thanksgiving there?
Who last shall look on thee when thou thyself

Dost change in heaven-for worlds as atoms change
Before the everlasting: or wilt thou

Stand, and while stars as dew-drops melt before thee
Quenched in the abyss, still self existent burn,
The life-the centre-the enduring soul?

O thou most living light! I have drawn from thee
As from a fountain, purity and love,

And a deep knowledge of the world; from boyhood
To thee the yearnings of my heart were sent,

A wanderer on the hills. I watch thee now

And feel ambition: not to rise o'er men

Or to be loved or feared; I would not die
Like them, but in the inspiration of this song
Live as a spirit when I am no more;

A record not of pride, but gratitude,

To tell of one who was who blessed thee once,

And left his words to be forgot, or dwelt on

With an affectionate memory. For oh, thou sun!

Like the Chaldean I have bowed to thee,

And from the mountains, and the ocean waves

Stretched forth my hands to thee, while thou didst take

Thy glorious departure from the world!

Thou didst inspire me like a prophet then,

With thoughts sublime, and visions not my own;
For gazing there, I saw with inmost eye

The good, the beauty of things visible!

And through this film of sense that darkens all
With doubt and disbelief, and through the evil
That makes us what we are-the hidden love,
The order, and the prescience of the unknown.

Farewell-if I inherited too much

Of thy Promethean fire, making me here
Restless, and quick, and wayward, wasting thus
Life's wick out ere its time-yet thou hast given
Moments of passionate feeling and of love,
Which were eternities in joy; such as
Not even poets shape forth in their dreams.
And my last hour when gazing on thee shall
Be happy! these frail atoms which but met

To tremble and to suffer, then shall part

And sleep in calm quiescence; or through space Float on thy beams, and dew earth's sleeping flowers: And whither may this animating soul

Wander, thou glorious centre, but to thee!

To an Autumn Rose is another address in a different style, with which we shall conclude: it is indeed an imitation of Moore's "Last Rose of Summer."

TO AN AUTUMN ROSE.

And is thy beauty gone,
Sweet rose, for ever,
And wilt thou, lovely one,
Bloom again never?
Thy boughs are all stooping
Bent down by the blast,
Thy leaves faded and drooping
Lie scentless at last!

Yon sun that shines brightly
No more shall awaken:
The wind passeth lightly,-

And leaves thee forsaken!

Thy day thou has revelled,

And those seared leaves beneath

Shall, torn and dishevelled,

Be tossed o'er the heath.

Yet why should I mourn thee,
Thou thing of a day!

No sorrow hath worn thee
With early decay;

Thy life was bereft not

Of joy unconfined;

Thou art gone-and hast left not

One tear-drop behind.

St Adresse.

DE VERE.*

In our review of Tremaine, we estimated its author rather as a shrewd observer than a profound philosopher. The present work confirms this impression. De Vere is superior in every way to its predecessor, and if it has not altered our opinion of the nature of the writer's capacity, it has very much exalted our opinion of its powers. He is not, we repeat, a deep or an accurate thinker, but he has looked at the world as a painter views a landscape, with a fine perception of every variety of hue and form, though uninstructed and perhaps incurious respecting their causes. The artist may not sketch the less faithfully, or feel a less lively sense of the beauties of nature, because he is unacquainted with botany, geology, and astronomy; and our author may not paint humanity in many of its nicest phases with less exactness because he is not profoundly grounded in moral science. He has seen much of men, and seen them well, with a piercing sight and a liberal allowance for peculiarities, a just distaste for littleness in all its disguises, and a fervent love of simplicity and singleness of mind. He notes, but he does not rage, against foibles, while he pourtrays the virtues with a tone of calm enjoyment which indicates the depth and sincerity of his pleasure in the task, and gives a rich

De Vere; or the Man of Independence. By the Author of Tremaine. In four Volumes. London: Colburn, 1827.